


Tell Me What You Want (What You Really Really Want)

by NahaFlowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miranda KNOWS WHAT'S UP, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Relationship, Shame, very brief mention of biblical rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 11:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11896836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NahaFlowers/pseuds/NahaFlowers
Summary: James calls Thomas's name out while having sex with Miranda. The next time they meet, she has plans...plans to let him reveal his true self, without shame. Afterwards, they talk.(Basically, Miranda talks dirty about what she and Thomas do in bed, while she and James have sex. James is simultaneously intensely ashamed and embarrassed, and incredibly into it).





	Tell Me What You Want (What You Really Really Want)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Palebluedot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/gifts).



> So this came about originally from a conversation I had with [palebluedot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot) where I commented on the fact that there were a fair few fics where Miranda helps Thomas get off while talking about sex with James, but none the other way round. I thought I'd never write it. I wrote it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It had been Miranda’s idea, and James had just gone along with it. It had been far too long since he had had something up his arse, even if it was just his lady’s fingers.

He didn’t even realise what he had said until Miranda looked at him, surprised, as they lay there recovering from their orgasms.   
“What?” said James quickly. Miranda just raised an eyebrow. He searched the last few minutes of his memory and remembered - then wished he hadn’t. As he had come, merely from the pressure and stimulation of her fingers in his arse - neither he nor Miranda had so much as touched his cock, he had gasped out Thomas’s name.

James turned away from her, burying his head in the pillow. “Shit,” he said indistinctly into the soft fabric.

Miranda stroked his hair for a minute, blessedly saying nothing. Then: “Were you imagining my husband, Lieutenant?”

James groaned into the pillow, a red flush spreading not just across his cheeks, but right down his freckled back and shoulders.

“James,” said Miranda, in a softer voice. “You know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, don’t you?”

James snorted. Miranda sighed, still stroking his hair. He could hardly bear the tenderness, not now. It had been bad enough to feel like he was betraying Lord Hamilton by sleeping with his wife, no matter how Miranda assured him that Thomas would not mind. Now, he felt, he had betrayed her as well. He pulled out of her grip and rolled to the edge of the bed.

He pushed himself up against the pillows, turning towards Miranda, though not actually looking at her. “I know,” he swallowed, and tried again, “I know that this is something you feel we should talk about. But,” he ran his hands through his hair, trying to calm himself, “could we just…not?” He dared to look up at her.

There was a sad look in her eyes as she sighed. “Alright,” she said. “We won’t _talk_ about it.”

James sagged in relief, although the emphasis of her sentence was somewhat worrying. However, the rest of the visit passed without incident and James relaxed again, glad the topic had passed without comment.

The next time they rendezvoused was at the Hamiltons house. Thomas was out for the night, Miranda had said, so they had the place to themselves.   
James still felt slightly guilty about sleeping with Thomas’s wife behind the man’s back, even though she had assured him several times that it was perfectly alright, and that Thomas would not mind, if he knew. In fact, James strongly suspected that Thomas _did_ know, but he tried not to think about that too hard, Miranda telling Thomas of their relationship, perhaps relating their various exploits to him as they lay in bed together…no, James tried not to think about that at all.

Tonight, Miranda greeted him warmly and then, with barely a word exchanged, took him by the hand and led him up the stairs.   
Although James knew the downstairs rooms of the Hamilton residence rather well by now, he had only ventured upstairs on a few occasions, always with Miranda, and they had always been only in her own chambers. This time, however, she led him to a different door.   
She pushed it open and stepped inside without hesitating. James followed her after a moment, wondering why they did not just go to her room, before taking in his surroundings.

The room was clearly lived in, as evidenced by the books and pens on the desk and the dressing robe hung on the door; it was Thomas’s smell, however, that had James immediately realising that this was his room. That smell was one he spent almost every day in the heady company of, often finding himself leaning in to take it deeper into his nostrils, before catching himself and pulling back, hoping Thomas had not noticed. It was the smell he spent every waking moment apart from Thomas trying to recapture, wholly unsuccessfully, for there was nothing quite like it, and he could not fully recreate it from the power of his imagination alone. And it was this smell that pervaded the beautiful but surprisingly spartan bedroom, and caused James to draw in a sharp gasp of breath, provoking Miranda to look back at him, eyebrows raised.

“This is Thomas’s room,” James stated.   
“Yes,” said Miranda simply.   
“Miranda, why are we in Thomas’s room? I thought we were-”   
“We are,” she said calmly. “In here.”   
James blushed heartily. The very image of it, the idea of having sex with her here, in Thomas’s room, surrounded by his scent, would fuel his fantasies for _weeks_ , he knew, if not months. But he could not. “Miranda, we can’t possibly…what on Earth would your husband think?”   
“I imagine he’d be rather pleased,” said Miranda in an undertone, and James was not sure he had heard her properly. He _hoped_ he had not heard he properly, although the other option was that he was going mad with obsession, and honestly, he didn’t know which was worse. Miranda looked up at him. “James, do you trust me?”

He considered for a moment. It was true that he had been warned, upon taking this assignment, that these people were not to be trusted, that he should play it carefully with them. It was also true, however, that James felt more at ease, more able to be himself, with both Miranda _and_ Thomas, than he ever had done before. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I rather think I do.”

Miranda nodded slowly. “Well then. I need you to trust me. I have something planned, and I think you will rather enjoy it, but - you need to trust me. And you need to trust yourself.”

James bit his lip. Trusting Miranda was one thing, but trusting himself…usually he was a model of discipline and self-control, but these past few months, his thoughts had grown wilder, straying further and further from the leash he usually kept them on. “You know I don’t mind you taking control, don’t you?” he said, in lieu of a proper answer.

Miranda gave a predatory smile. “I know that.”

“Good,” said James, raising his eyebrows as if to say, ‘should we get on with it then?’ He still didn’t know why they were in Thomas’s room, but he had to admit that he was intrigued, and half hard in his breeches.

Miranda grinned and started to unbutton his coat. “Remember, you can tell me to stop at any time,” she said softly as she kissed his jaw.

He chuckled. “Thank you, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

Miranda merely raised an eyebrow and gestured for James, now fully naked, to get on the bed. James did, feeling his heart rate increase as Thomas’s scent surrounded him, imagining Thomas lying in this bed, sleeping, reading, touching himself… He shivered involuntarily.

Miranda sank down on the bed beside him, still fully clothed, and kissed his shoulder. “You are aware, of course, that Thomas and I share this bed, often as not.

He had been trying to prevent the images from taking hold of him completely. He merely grunted, and rolled on to his front to hide his erection from her. He buried his face in the pillow, but that was even worse - it smelled of Thomas so strongly that for a moment he would have sworn Thomas was on the bed with him.

Miranda, although James couldn’t see it, was smiling wickedly. "We’ve done all sorts of things in this bed, Thomas and I.” James bit back a groan. “Sometimes I stroke him off, and he does the same to me.” Miranda reached around James’s body and grasped his cock in her small hand, and he gasped harshly. “Sometimes I suck him off, and he me, sometimes both at the same time - he really is awfully skilled with his tongue.” James was practically whimpering now; he turned on his side to release his trapped cock from where it was trapped against the sheets, already dripping precum. “But do you know what Thomas’s favourite thing to do in bed with me is, Lieutenant?” She waited for an answer.   
“No,” he forced out, wishing Miranda would just touch him already.   
In answer, Miranda ran her fingers down his back to his arse, where she brushed her fingers tantalisingly against his hole. His breath hitched and his breathing rate increased, panting in and out, just trying to get some control back over his faculties. “I fuck him,” she said, and James’s head swam with pleasures, with images of Thomas beneath Miranda, beneath her fingers, moaning and crying out and-

No. He could not think like that. The man was his colleague, his partner, and a Lord to boot. Whatever his sexual proclivities in bed with his wife, it had no bearing on the man’s possible proclivities towards his own sex, and certainly, James should not be thinking of him that way. Especially in Thomas’s own bed. The whole thing made him feel dirty. And yet-

And yet at the same time, it felt so good. His cock was throbbing between his legs, and Miranda had barely touched it; he’d rarely been so turned on. When Miranda returned to the bed, he dared to look at her over his shoulder, and then immediately wished he hadn’t.

She was carrying a leather dildo and a smile. James gulped.

“Do you- I mean- does Thomas-” He blushed and chastised himself internally but he found that he was burning with curiosity to know more, know what Thomas liked in bed.

“Does Thomas like being fucked with this?” Miranda asked bluntly. James nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes,” she said. “Rather a lot, if his reactions are anything to go by. Thomas rather loves being loud in bed; moaning and shouting and crying out beneath me. It’s…extremely satisfying to know how much I please him.”

James groaned into the pillow.

“But I am going to fuck you with the same dildo I use to fuck Thomas,” James felt like he was going to pass out, more blood than he had ever thought possible rushing to his penis as he tried to stop himself from humping Thomas’s bedclothes, “and James, my darling,” and she said the epithet ardently, as if she truly adored him, even seeing the shameful mess that he’d become, “I have a feeling that you are going to enjoy it even more.” With that she poured a liberal amount of oil over her fingers and slowly, slowly inserted on into James. Despite the unhurried pace she was taken, just that was almost enough to push James over the edge. Once her index finger was fully inside him, she stilled for a long few moments, letting him adjust to it and pull himself back from the edge. Eventually he let out a breath and nodded for her to continue, thrusting in and out, eventually adding a second finger and scissoring them to open him up, being careful not to brush his sweet spot.   
“Enough,” he said eventually, speaking a great amount of effort. “Please,” he gasped as she withdrew her fingers.

“Please what?” she asked. James buried his head into the pillow.

“Please fuck me like you would fuck Thomas,” he said, holding back a sob. She had made a complete and utter wreck of him. He heard her strapping on the dildo, slicking it with oil. He was so oversensitive that the mere sound of it sent electric shocks running through his cock.

James felt the thick leather head press lightly against his hole and pushed back against it wantonly, desperately, but Miranda moved away, knelt down beside him to whisper in his ear. “Now,” she said, stroking the shell of his ear as he whimpered into the pillow, “tell me what you _really_ want.”

Tears spilled, unbidden, down James’s cheeks, a product of both sensation and shame, desire and disgust fighting within his core and spilling out from his eyes. “I want,” he took a deep breath, shakily, and shook his head. Miranda nipped at his ear and then kissed it.   
“Come on, James,” she coaxed. “I know you can say it. I won’t let you come until you’ve said it.”

Tears were falling in earnest now. James pulled himself back together, just barely, and said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “I want you to fuck me like Thomas might fuck me.”

He was rewarded with the head of the leather cock thrusting inside him, and he let himself be taken by the fantasy, as it filled him up, let himself imagine it was Thomas filling him up, Thomas thrusting inside him, slowly at first, gently, and then harder and faster, hitting that little bundle of nerves until James was screaming out with every other thrust.   
“Thomas,” he gasped, completely abandoned to the fantasy, “harder, please, harder!” The cock in his arse responded by thrusting with renewed vigour, and soon James was coming, the most intense orgasm he had ever felt shuddering through his body as he cried out Thomas’s name.

James collapsed on the bed when it was over, sighing almost with relief. Then the still solid cock pulled out of his arse and he felt horrible guilt and shame coil up inside him.

“James?” said Miranda, stroking his hair. He groaned and shrugged her off, burying his head into the pillow, but _fuck_ it still _smelt_ like him, and he had to get out of here, now.

He sat up and got off the bed, standing and walking shakily to the washbasin in the corner, his blood still not returned from below, but suffused across his pale, freckled skin. He could hardly bear to look at himself in the mirror as he carelessly wiped himself down and retrieved his uniform from the other side of the room, putting it on hastily.

“James?” said Miranda, still on the bed, her finger resting on her cunt. “Are you leaving?”

He closed his eyes, ashamed of himself, but he could not stay to pleasure her, could not spend another minute in this room. “I have to,” he said, strained.

“Why do you have to?” Miranda asked, and it was curious, but it was gentle too, and _God_ he _despised_ her kindness in that moment. _The damned Hamiltons and their damned gentleness!_ , he thought, feeling tears threatening to gather again. He blinked them away, angrily, and rounded on her.

“Because,” he hissed, “we just had sex in your husband’s bed. Not even normal sex either! Buggery! What if your husband had returned early? What if he had _seen_?” James’s voice was agonised, and he felt even more agonised when his cock gave a jerk of interest at the idea of being discovered so.

“He would not have,” said Miranda. “I had his assurance that we would have the house for tonight.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does he know then? Does he know exactly what we’ve been doing in here?”

“No,” said Miranda, standing up from the bed to put a hand on James’s shoulder. “He doesn’t know.”   
“He knows some, though, right?” asked James, forcing himself to say it.   
“He knows we are having sex,” she said, and James felt embarrassment grip his insides, “nothing more.”   
He breathed deeply, slowly, trying not to let his panic show. He had revealed himself to her tonight, revealed too much, and James didn’t think he could bear her seeing anymore. Save his shame for when he was locked securely in his rooms; Miranda should not have to see more of his repulsiveness than she had already.

“Why,” she said, stroking his back, “did you not enjoy it?” She sounded genuinely worried, and _God_ , he wanted to scream.

“Of course I did! I fucking loved every minute of it!” Pain lanced through his admission.

“Well then,” said Miranda, as if that was all that mattered.

“But it’s wrong! Depraved! And now you know, how disgusting I am, that I’m- I’m a sodomite!”

Miranda took his hand, and stroked his hair back soothingly with her other. “I disagree. It’s not any of those things, and _you_ are not any of those things.” She tilted her forehead to his and he pressed into the touch, wanting it so badly to be true. “You may love men, enjoy sex with men, but that doesn’t make you a sodomite. And it _certainly_ doesn’t make you disgusting.” Her tone was forbidding, inarguable, but James couldn’t believe her.

“What does it make me, then?” he scoffed.

"It makes you…a man who loves other men.” James snorted. “A man who loves my husband,” she continued, and James turned away from her, not able to countenance mention of her husband. “And as I also love my husband, I can hardly condemn you for that.”

James did not speak, but he shook his head vigorously, her words anathema to everything he had ever been told.

She sighed, and sat down on the bed, patting the space beside him for him to join. “Do you know where that term comes from?”

“Sodomite?” he said, cringing as the word made its way through his teeth. “Yes. I know my Bible, Miranda.”

She smiled reprovingly. “Then you’ll know that God condemned the men of Sodom not for the fact that their targets were men, but because they _raped_ them. They perpetrated violence against their guests. That was why they were punished. That was why what they did was sinful.”

James exhaled air through his nose. “Is that what you believe?” he asked sceptically.

“It’s what’s written in the text,” she said stubbornly. “It’s society who has twisted it to their own purposes, trying to make what you feel something evil and profane.”

“And I should care less about 'what the neighbours think’?” he asked caustically.

“More or less, yes. But it’s not just me who thinks it. You should hear Thomas go on about it…”

All of a sudden James felt terribly young and vulnerable, innocent of the world as the Hamiltons saw it, the scales being removed from his eyes so he could see, and what he saw was so much possibility. But such a leap from there to reality. He looked up at her. “Thomas…?”

Miranda smiled, amused but tender. “He feels much the same way you do, I believe.”

“In general, or-” James blurted out and then blushed at his lack of subtlety.

“I doubt he feels anything _general_ about you at all.”

James let that sink in, feeling a pleasant vibration of his skin, all of his nerve endings jangling.

Then he looked at her again, suddenly terrified. “But, Miranda, I _can’t_ -”

She placed a consoling hand on his shoulder again. “It is up to you what you do,” she said. “I just…couldn’t bear for you to feel shame for something that is not wrong, and more to the point, something that seems to be very much wanted on both sides.”

Even with the vagueness of the language, James couldn’t help but blush, feeling his stomach fill with fluttering. But he couldn’t- it was still- it would take some time, he thought, before he could bear to accept himself. And until he could do that, he couldn’t pursue anything with Thomas. Thomas Hamilton deserved somebody who would love him and kiss him and touch him without shame, and that person was certainly not him.   
He sighed, standing up. “I just need time,” he said to Miranda, apologetically. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Not if you don’t wish it, no,” she said, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. “Do what feels right,” she said, pressing his arm meaningfully.

James looked longingly towards the door, desperately needing to go home and put his thoughts in order. But, “do you need-?” he gestured at her still uncovered bottom half, but she brushed him off.

“No,” she said, kissing his hand sweetly. “You go home. I can take care of myself,” she said, winking.

James huffed a laugh. “Very well,” he said, kissing her lips, putting all his gratitude and affection for her into that kiss.

“Will I see you tomorrow, Lieutenant?” she asked.

James swallowed. He did indeed have an appointment with Thomas tomorrow, but seeing him so soon was a prospect he was not sure he was quite prepared for. “I suppose you will,” he said, earning him an approving smile. “Till tomorrow then, Lady Hamilton,” he said, taking his leave.

“Till tomorrow, Lieutenant McGraw,” she returned, suppressing a smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, as always, are the most wonderful gift an author can receive.


End file.
